


Inexorable

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: There was a writing advice thing on the tumblrs which said to avoid naming emotions and to describe them instead and I decided fuck that. So, Athos is sad. Porthos is not sad. but he is tired.





	Inexorable

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: full disclosure I wrote this about a year ago, haven't read it since all the way through, and can't quite remember what's in it. However, grief, mourning (no major character deaths), I seem to remember Athos's dad was a dick growing up, Athos maybe should not drink so much, all of them had the slightly shitty childhood like in canon

Athos is sad. It’s a lingering malaise as autumn comes rolling in with its mists and chills and cracking leaves. Athos takes to imitating an aesthetic colour plate in a magazine - standing by windows gazing out, wistfully sitting with an arm across a bent knee, wearing jumpers and scarfs, drifting from room to room. It is a very studied kind of sadness though there’s nothing artificial about the actual emotion it’s just a clinical kind of expression of it, all clean, careful delineation and sterile minimalism of what escapes from the neat outline of jumper-clad misery. Porthos carves him a series of small pumpkins and gourds. Athos sets them out on the window sill and gazes wistfully at them sometimes. 

“I’m home,” Porthos calls, as the door opens and closes. 

Athos turns away from the row of pumpkin heads and watches the livingroom door, listening to Porthos removing his shoes and hanging his coat, giving a small cough, muttering to himself, rattling his keys. Eventually the door pushes open over the carpet and Porthos comes through, damp from the cold outside, cheeks pink from the temperature change. The house is warm. Athos curls his toes in the warm carpet. 

“You look happy,” Porthos says, unwinding himself from a long scarf which he drops on the sofa, testing how damp his wool-jumper is before dropping after it, over the arm of the sofa, knees crooked over it the rest of him spilling off the cushions. He shifts so he fits better. “What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know,” Athos says. Porthos pouts. 

Athos turns back to gaze out at the street. It starts to rain. Porthos isn’t sad but he is tired and he’s the kind of tired that is an Emotional State. All the same he goes to the kitchen, out of Athos’s view and beyond his thoughts for a while. Athos is busy: there’s a car inching around the residential streets out there, headlight beams lighting the raindrops; there’s someone in a t-shirt running to get out of the rain; there’s a jogger running; there’s a cat sheltering under a van; there’s a door opening to let all the light spill out along with kids who are hugging one person and rushing to the car there with another; the car is pulling out and away just red lights in the dark heading home in the chill. Athos shifts and his toes feel warm and he turns. 

Porthos is sitting at the kitchen table eating chicken and rice, reading a paperback that’s folded in two destroying the spine. Athos goes through and helps himself to the food off the stove and sits to eat too. Porthos talks but Athos doesn’t so Porthos goes back to his book. It’s Herland by Charlotte Perkins-Gilman, a gift from Aramis, sent by post. Athos eats slowly, eyes on the book. Porthos finishes his food and puts his bowl in the sink, leaning on the counter. He puts his head back and closes his eyes. Athos gets up and fetches the book and sits with it, looking at the cover, as he eats bite by bite until everything is gone. Porthos is stood, eyes closed, breathing. Athos puts his things in the sink too and watches their crockery and cutlery set down empty side by side. He holds onto the edge of the sink and cries, he lets go and puts the things into the dishwasher one at a time, holding onto Porthos’s bowl a bit longer. 

Porthos straightens when Athos is done and waits. Athos walks out of the kitchen and Porthos follows. They set the coffee maker for the morning, check the locks at the front and back doors, walk up the stairs in single file. Athos pauses at the window on the landing to look down. The cat is gone. They walk into the bathroom and do their teeth side by side then walk into the bedroom. Athos takes all his clothes off and stands naked, looking at Porthos moving quietly around, already in pyjamas, putting his clothes from today in the laundry hamper or folding them on the chair, pulling the curtains across the window. Athos cries again while he gets his sweats on, his long-sleeve t-shirt, his jumper, his thick socks. 

Porthos is in bed. Athos turns the overhead off and gets in the other side, under the duvet next to Porthos. It’s cold in there, even with both of them, too much space between them. Porthos waits. Athos turns off his bedside light. Porthos lets out a deep sigh before doing the same. He turns on his side, a big shape under the blankets, his breathing slowing as he shifts and stills, head on the pillow. Athos waits for him to be fully asleep then he feels relieved. He moves closer slowly and carefully, fitting himself in behind Porthos, resting an arm over Porthos’s waist, the other curled against his warm back. Porthos makes a noise and Athos freezes. Porthos relaxes again. Athos presses his face against Porthos’s hair and shoulder. He expects to weep but it doesn’t happen. The sadness doesn’t come. Instead he goes to sleep. 

Athos is sad when he wakes up. Porthos is awake. Athos has his arm around Porthos. Athos doesn’t move and Porthos doesn’t move, neither of them speak. Porthos breathes easily and stays silent and lets Athos stay close to him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to get up or to face Athos or to do anything. Athos swallows and moves his arm so he can find Porthos’s hand. Porthos knits their fingers and then lets go and swaps so his hand is on the outside, big and warm around Athos’s fingers. Athos takes his other arm from between them and Porthos raises his head so Athos can put it underneath. Porthos’s cheek is warm, his nose and forehead cold. Athos holds him. 

Holds him.

“I have work,” Porthos whispers.

Athos lets go. Porthos sits on the edge of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees, head against his hands to rub the sleep away. He stretches, yawning, and rubs his stomach. He turns to look at Athos over his shoulder. He smiles. It’s any other morning, he likes waking up with Athos, he’s not sad. Athos pokes at the sadness and then gets up himself, sitting behind Porthos, thighs either side of him, heels of his feet on the edge of the bedframe. He puts his arms around Porthos and rests his head on Porthos’s shoulder and Porthos holds onto his arm. Athos closes his eyes and cries. Porthos rubs the sleep away again and yawns again, rubbing Athos’s arm, stilling himself. His alarm goes off. He snoozes it. It goes off again. He gets up, slowly so Athos doesn’t fall off the bed, and goes to shower. 

Porthos sings in the shower. Athos gets up and goes to get a cup of coffee. He sits in a chair by the window in the living room looking at the row of pumpkin heads. The oldest is starting to slump in on itself. Porthos comes down in his jeans and button up with a stack of papers and a few books in his arms. He dumps it on the coffee table and goes to get his bag from the hall to put it all in there. He goes into the kitchen to get his lunch box and travel mug of coffee. He stows those away too. He goes again to the kitchen and comes back with scrambled eggs sandwiched between two slices of toast. He leans next to Athos and eats in silence, watching the street. 

Athos watches Porthos. Porthos watches as: someone gets in their car, looking rushed, and drives away; a front door bangs open tipping out three children in school uniforms and a person after them with a coat and a forgotten lunchbox, they all walk down the street; someone gets out their bike from a back gate, locking it behind them and cycling away with their lights on; a car drives slowly through; another door and another set of children bangs open and tumbles out. Porthos finishes his breakfast and goes to do his teeth and shave. Athos thinks about Porthos’s beard: It’s growing back in after summer and start of term and he keeps it trim and neat and redoes the lines every day, keeping it all shaped up. On Saturday he’ll go to the barber in the morning and get it done professionally. He comes back down and curses softly, thundering back up and coming down with a huge roll of black paper. 

“Halloween,” Porthos says, holding up the roll. Athos nods. Porthos waits. “Alright. See you later?”

Athos shrugs and Porthos for a moment is sad. Athos gets up and walks over the livingroom. He picks up Porthos’s bag and Porthos is relieved. He walks out to the hall and Athos follows, waiting while Porthos puts on his shoes and the big coat. Athos puts the bag over Porthos’s head and Porthos puts his arm through. Athos makes sure it rests comfortably on Porthos’s shoulder. Athos goes back to the livingroom to get Porthos’s scarf and comes back out to wrap it around and around Porthos’s neck and shoulders, tucking it inside his coat collar. He rests both his hands against Porthos’s chest after. Porthos puts a kiss on top of Athos’s head. 

“Bye,” Porthos says. He leaves the house. 

Athos goes back to his chair and watches Porthos walk down the street, greeting the school children he passes or who pass him on scooters or bikes, and greeting their parents. He walks with someone for a while before they part again. On the corner Porthos raises a hand and d’Artagnan, waiting for him, waves back. They walk the rest of the way together, out of sight of Athos.  
***  
“How’s Athos doing?” d’Artagnan asks, in the staff room. 

“You know, the same,” Porthos says, mouth full of apple. “He’s ok. Think he’s confused about why he’s grieving for a father he didn’t care much for but mostly he’s sad at odd moments.”

“And you?” d’Artagnan asks, flipping open the copier and changing the page, closing it and pressing go. Nothing happens. “Fuck. No.”

“He’s still looking out for me,” Porthos says, finishing the apple and getting up, coffee in one hand. “I’m good.”

He kicks the printer, presses the green button, tugs open drawers, thumps the thing, presses the green button. It whirs into life. d’Artagnan breathes again. 

“Thank you, you just saved my life,” d’Artagnan says. 

“I’m a tech wizard,” Porthos says. He laughs and slaps d’Artagnan on the back, wandering over to the window. “Ha, I’ve caught Athos’s habit of looking out at everything. It used to be mine, you know. He stole it first.”

“Uh huh,” d’Artagnan says, not listening anymore: he’s done his duty. 

He sees Porthos every day and every day he asks the same questions and Porthos gives more or less the same answers. It’s a ritual that lets Porthos know that d’Artagnan is there, thinking of them, around for real answers if Porthos ever wants to go into it. Now he’s busy working. Porthos spots Aramis in the car park, gathering his stuff from his ridiculous little electric car. 

“Aramis is back,” Porthos says. 

“Oh? I thought he wasn’t due until Monday?” d’Artagnan says, coming over to look as well. 

He and Porthos aren’t the earliest in or the only ones here today but they’re the only ones using the staff room. Charon came and dumped something in his locker then vanished again. Flea came and gave Porthos a hug and kissed his cheek and given him an apple, used the printer, then went again. Headmaster Treville had poked his head in looking for someone but it wasn’t one of them. The photocopier beeps and d’Artagnan swears again going back to see what’s the matter this time. Porthos perches on the window sill in case he’s needed again and sips his coffee, watching d’Artagnan muttering and looking for paper. It’s not the paper, Porthos checked that before. While d’Artagnan’s looking in a cupboard Porthos gives the paper draw a shove with his foot and the copier beeps a pleased beep and finishes d’Artagnan’s copies. 

“I hate you,” d’Artagnan says, emerging from the cupboard with paper. “What did you do?”

“Kicked it,” Aramis says, sauntering in like he hasn’t been gone for the entire first TWO MONTHS of the term. “It’s what he always does. Hello, chaps.”

“Athos’s Dad died while you were gone,” d’Artagnan accuses, scooping up his copies and his books and shouldering past Aramis. 

“He’ll forgive,” Porthos says, from his perch on the window sill. 

Sure enough d’Artagnan comes back and hugs Aramis, all laughter now, kissing his cheeks and saying how nice it is he’s home before rushing off to his classroom. Aramis laughs as he goes and then turns to Porthos, setting his things on the table. 

“What? I’m not a puppy, I’m not forgiving that easy,” Porthos says. “How was it?”

“Long, boring,” Aramis says. “Conferences are always long and boring. Seriously? You’re holding a grudge?”

“Nah,” Porthos says. “Not really.”

“Then will you please stop sitting on that window like it’s a throne and come hug me?” Aramis says. He’s annoyed. Porthos gets up and lets Aramis hug him, lets himself rest his head on Aramis’s shoulder. He closes his eyes a moment before stepping out of the hug. “That’s it?”

“Yeah that’s it, unless you want me crying at work,” Porthos says. 

The bell goes then and Aramis goes all wide eyed and panics over Porthos not being in class, until Porthos laughs and tells him that he’s not teaching the first class of the day. 

“You could have said,” Aramis says, arms full of Porthos’s things. He puts them back on the table. 

“Don’t need all that anyway,” Porthos says, smiling. “Why are you here?”

“Treville. Meetings,” Aramis says, shrugging. “I came back in time for the end of term show and Christmas stuff, surely that’s all you really need a drama teacher for? TAs or whatever can do the rest of this term.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t express that opinion to Treville,” Porthos says. 

“He already heard,” Treville says, dryly, coming back to look for someone again. “How’s Athos?”

“He’ll be back in January,” Porthos says. 

“Wasn’t what I asked but good,” Treville says. “Aramis? Shall we?”

“Right, yes sir,” Aramis says. Treville leaves and Aramis scrunches up his face at Porthos in consternation. Porthos hides his laughter behind his coffee. 

They meet up after school at the pub, like usual for a Friday, they decide after some bickering via text that the one closest will do for tonight. Porthos is late, busy completing paperwork and plans and sticking up the black bats and scary faces the younger kids made today around the art room. His GCSE students have projects due and the room’s a mess so he has to do something about that, too. He makes a nice little notice to stick up everywhere reminding people in bleeding red letters to put their things away and not leave rubbish all over his nice classroom. It is nice and seasonal. He then prints out some Times New Roman, neat black little letters ones, because he supposes Treville might not approve of having giant smears of blood on the walls even if they ARE in the shapes of letters. It was a good halloween font. Porthos prints out a love letter to Athos in it instead and folds it up neatly, laughing to himself, before heading to the pub. 

Aramis, d’Artagnan, Flea and Constance are at a table tucked in the back, most of the rest of the pub patrons are people from the estate or teachers. There are less teachers than there might be, Fridays they often go a bit further afield to avoid bumping into parents. Though, mostly, the locals here are grandparents if anything. The locals tend to go to the pub at the other end, it’s nicer and run by one of the ‘community figures’. The barman here is just surly old Serge who puts anyone with half a brain off. If he doesn’t than Florian, the one eyed cook who’s either Serge’s life partner, husband, friend, or all three, does. Porthos perches on a stool to wait for one of the men to come get him a beer. Athos isn’t here, he said he might come but Porthos isn’t surprised; Athos has lost his grasp of time. Florian eventually comes out and notices Porthos. Serge is holding up the bar reading the paper but has been ignoring Porthos. Florian stops to mutter something, laughs at Serge’s reply, comes over. 

“Apparently you owe us money,” Florian says, grinning. “He doesn’t like to ask, apparently you always-”

Porthos widens his eyes and pushes his lower lip out just-enough-not-too-much, lowers his head, and tries for ‘innocence with a dash of confusion, worry, and shame’. Florian laughs. 

“Yeah,” Florian says. “That. He’s a sucker, I’m not.”

“Yeah yeah,” Porthos says, pulling out his wallet. “What’s the damage?”

“Forty three pounds ten, Serge is gonna knock the ten pee off as a favour,” Florian says. 

“Generous of him. Has Athos been here then? Last I checked I owed you a tenner at most,” Porthos says, pulling out his card and passing it across. “Add a couple of beers on, to cover tonight.”

“I can check the tab if you like?” Florian asks, putting it through on the ancient card machine and untacking the tab down from the back of the bar, flicking through the receipts. 

“No it’s fine,” Porthos says, holding out his hand. 

The tab’s passed over and Porthos pockets it, hoping that Athos is drinking expensive stuff and not getting pissed. Porthos paid the tab on Tuesday when they came and played darts after the teacher’s meeting. Florian draws him whatever’s on tap and they wait for the card machine to clunk through. Serge wanders over to say hello now the embarrassing money stuff is out of the way and Porthos grins at him and reaches over the bar, hand held out. Serge takes it and they lean, shoulders bumping, as they pull away Porthos smacks a kiss on his stubbly cheek.

“Athos has been in a bit,” Serge says, shaking a tea towel at Florian until he buggers off back to the kitchen cursing. 

“Yeah, so I see,” Porthos says, eying his card. 

“He’s on the whiskey,” Serge says. The expensive stuff, then. Porthos smiles and Serge gives him a grave nod, then thumps the machine. It beeps pitifully and then prints the receipts. “Flo charged three beers over on here, that cover you?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, hopping down. “If Athos comes back sell him top price, yeah?”

“You know we have AA here on Thursdays,” Serge says, lowering his voice. 

“He doesn’t need it,” Porthos snaps. He sits back on the stool and sighs, resting his head on the bar. “He’s not an alcoholic, he just drinks a lot. Coping mechanism not an addiction.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He is sure, as well. He’s seen alcoholism. They both have. They know it’s not that. Doesn’t make it a healthy coping mechanism, and Porthos had thought Athos was mostly brooding and going for long brooding walks and brooding in Tescos and going to buy autumny brooding clothes and maybe crying in the changing rooms. Brooding at the pub in the daytime while Porthos is at work and not mentioning it is Not a Good Sign, even if it’s not necessarily a Bad Sign either. 

“Maybe I should sell the top price whiskey to you and put it on Athos’s tab,” Serge says. 

“Athos doesn’t have a tab he’s too classy,” Porthos says, admiringly. 

“I can start one, I’ve definitely got his card on record somewhere for something,” Serge says. 

Porthos ignores that and goes to join the others in the corner. He sits beside Aramis and listens to the stories about the exciting theatre things Aramis saw while he was at his conference. He gets some stories about the conference itself and it doesn’t sound so boring. Aramis stretching it out over two months is impressive, but it was South American Theatre and Queer Intervention, which is his field, so he had plenty of professional people to catch up with, and it had been back home in Chile so he’d visited family. He seems to have straightened things out with Treville. 

“Are you going to tell me about crying?” Aramis asks, arm slung easily over Porthos’s chair, Porthos’s scarf around his shoulders like a skinny shawl. 

“I dunno. I’m not sad. I’m tired,” Porthos says. 

“It’s autumn term, everyone’s tired,” Aramis says. “Half term didn’t help?”

“Does it look like it helped?” Porthos asks. 

They had gone to Athos’s home in France for half term and visited with Thomas and Marie, Athos’s brother and mother. It had been a very quiet week, all of them stunned. None of them had like Olivier, Athos’s father. He had been an absent, odd man, he had left Marie when the boys were ten and twelve and hadn’t shown any interest in them since. Athos’s step father, Gregor, was a warm, kind man, in contrast, and both Thomas and Athos took to him. He had been away when they visited, some kind of business drawing him South. He’s a wine merchant, Porthos always appreciates that, he drank plenty of wine. That had helped. Athos had also drunk a lot of wine and that had not helped, Porthos is pretty sure. Athos would wander around the house with a bottle in his hand looking at everything with wide, stunned eyes. Thomas trailed after him. Marie and Porthos sat in the living room. 

“Porthos?” Aramis says. 

“Oh just… it was so weird. Athos’s family has always been warm, talkative,” Porthos says. “I think I got a window into what it was like with Olivier. It winded me a bit. I knew Athos’s childhood... We all know it wasn’t happy, per se. His reactions remind me of me, though. And you.”

“I wasn’t, not like you,” Aramis hastens to says, eyes a bit wide.

“No one ever hit me either,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t mean there was no trauma, eh?”

“I know I know,” Aramis says, brushing it away, shifting to center himself, shaking it off. “I never thought of Athos like that.”

“Yeah well. I dunno.”

“I know. Let’s go back to mine and we can drink wine and you can sob on my shoulder. How does that sound?” 

“I should go home. Athos doesn’t ever know what time it is he just sits until I get home, but he’ll know I’m meant to be there and aren’t. He’ll fret.”

“Let him fret,” Aramis says, finishing his drink. “I’ll get another round in, you can think about it. Call him and tell him.”

“I already paid for mine,” Porthos says, gloomily, thinking about the free beer he’s missing out on. 

“And that, my friend, is why I’m getting the round in,” Aramis says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Call Athos.”

Porthos doesn’t call Athos. He drinks his three pints and then meanders home, a little tipsy, and sprawls on the sofa waiting for Athos to get off that damned kitchen chair and do something, stop staring out of the window at least. 

“Did you eat?” Athos asks, eventually, turning his head slowly. 

“Nope,” Porthos says, happy to be noticed, smiling at Athos. 

Athos quirks his eyebrows and his lips actually twitch. Porthos smiles wider. Athos comes over and lies carefully on top of Porthos, hands resting on Porthos’s chest, chin on his hands. Porthos orders a pizza and puts music on and basques in the joyful feeling of having Athos touching him again. He hasn’t been cut off completely but Athos has been handing out touches in carefully controlled doses recently, only when Porthos needs it and just just enough. Unless Porthos is sleeping. Porthos has woken up in Athos’s arms without fail. They eat pizza side by side and Athos creeps away again, sitting by the window afterwards, keeping feet of space between them while they do the house up for night-time. 

“I was gonna go to Aramis’s tonight,” Porthos says, waiting while Athos gets himself into his many-layered pyjamas. “I thought I should come home.”

“Thank you,” Athos says, not really listening. 

Porthos gets into bed and waits. Talking isn’t something that Athos can do right now, clearly. Athos eventually gets done arranging his many clothes and he climbs into bed on the other side, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling for a while before saying goodnight and putting his light out. Porthos turns his light off, too, and sighs. They lie in the dark, Athos tense and waiting for something, maybe for Porthos to go to sleep. They lie in the dark.

“Athos?” 

“Yeah?”

“Can you…” Porthos stops, feeling the tears he didn’t let out into Aramis’s shoulder this morning threaten again. “It’s been a long week.”

“Is it Friday? Oh. ok. We forgot to put the coffee maker on so we can sleep in without worrying about that.”

“Can you hold me, please?” 

There’s a long silence before Athos makes a soft, muted sound and turns over, tugging Porthos’s shoulder until Porthos does too and then drawing Porthos in against his chest, wrapping him up tight and holding him. 

“Sorry,” Athos whispers, lips against Porthos’s forehead. “You can always ask for that.”

“Okay.”

“Did you say ‘Aramis’?”

“Yes? Oh, he’s home. He was at work to meet with Treville and get told off, then he was at the pub,” Porthos says. “Speaking of which, my tab?”

“Ah. That.”

“Yeah, that. Is it ok?”

“I’m ok, Porthos. I will be ok,” Athos says, Porthos believes it. He’s half asleep when Athos starts talking again. “If you want to go to Aramis’s next time go, but if you want to come home you can always come home.”

“Mm. kay,” Porthos says, and then he is asleep. 

***

Athos is less sad, recently. He can differentiate between the days he spends in the pub and wanders home to sit in the kitchen chair, and the better days where he goes for long walks and ends up at the pub and sits at the bar with a single glass of good whiskey until Porthos swings by after work to collect him. It’s nice to have Porthos swing by to collect him. The bar is sticky, today. The whiskey is not as good as yesterday’s. Serge is grouchier than usual barely bothering to speak just grunting. There’s only one other patron in, some skinny lad from an estate doing homework in a corner with a coke, what has made him come here Athos does not have any inkling. Athos watches him. He’s tall, lanky, the look of a boy shooting up over short periods of time. His hair’s fuzzy and close-cropped, his hands are fine-boned on his books. Porthos comes through the door and does his shoulder-bump-cheek-kissing thing with Serge. He wanders over to the lad and swings a chair, sitting on it backwards. 

Athos realises Porthos is settling in for one of his chats and turns back to the bar, tries to catch Serge’s attention. Then he just gazes at the coloured glass of the many bottles set up back there and zones out on the light and shimmer. Serge grunts grouchily and yanks Athos’s glass out of his hand. Athos is given water, which is unacceptable but Athos can’t be bothered to argue. He’s vindicated when Porthos glances over and calls something, and Serge huffs but gives Athos whiskey instead. Athos gazes into the amber liquid instead. There’s ice in it, which is not what he likes. His father taught him how to drink whiskey, inviting Athos into the office late late at night and telling long long stories about meetings and business and good spirits. 

“Are you done?” Porthos asks, hot at Athos’s back, suddenly close. 

He’s too close. Athos slides away, out of the stool and down the bar with his whiskey, taking a stool further along. Porthos mutters ‘right’ and sits in Athos’s place. Athos watches, arm cushioning his head against the sticky bar, looking at Porthos distorted through the glass and whiskey and ice. It’s after twelve, his father had said, always, when his mother told him off for drinking in the mornings. That’s five o’clock in the US. Porthos gets impatient waiting for Serge to forgive him for making him give Athos whiskey and reaches over the bar, getting his hand into the tip jar before Serge comes over. Athos watches a tenner slip into Porthos’s sleeve as the coins clatter noisily back, Porthos roaring good natured laughter. 

“Give us a drink then,” Porthos says. Serge just looks, unimpressed. “Oh. I’ve got something for you.”

Porthos pulls a tiny sketchbook out of his pocket and opens it, a flutter of pressed flowers scattering across the bar. Serge stares at the flowers, then at Porthos. Porthos shrugs. Serge gathers the flowers and puts them carefully into a glass, setting it up on a shelf behind the bar with a stubby candle. Porthos gives him a lighter and Serge lights the wick, the fire catches the glint of tears in his eyes. Athos sets his whiskey aside and gets up, moving back to Porthos. He sets a hand in the middle of Porthos’s back and rests his head on Porthos’s shoulder, then presses a kiss to Porthos’s neck.

“Are you going to keep that tip?” Athos whispers. 

Porthos starts guiltily then puts the tenner back. 

“Just keeping my hand in,” Porthos mutters back, grinning. 

“Maybe not in the place that’ll goad the man who gives us whiskey,” Athos whispers. 

“What are you two getting into now?” Serge snaps, turning back to them, hands on his hips. “Get on with you.”

They get, laughing like naughty children who’ve got away with something. They stop for take out, Porthos whining about being too tired to cook, and then they sprawl in the livingroom. Athos feels a sense of normalcy trying to reassert itself and the nagging ache in his stomach trying to capsize that again before it’s had time to set in. Porthos falls asleep on the sofa and Athos gets up, standing at the window. He only looks out for a little while, irritation winning out over sadness and pushing him to set the coffee and check the locks and close the curtains before poking Porthos awake and herding him to bed. Porthos goes without waking properly and seems set to sleep in his clothes. Athos takes his tie off and undoes his trousers, covers him over with the duvet. He does his teeth and washes, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks tired, a little thinner than he should, his eyes are too heavy. His eyes are bright, though, and looking right out at him now sliding away and glassy like they have been. He’s sober, too. He goes to bed and spoons up behind Porthos, muttering until Porthos lifts his head for Athos to slide his arm under. 

Porthos’s alarm wakes him, next morning. That’s unusual. Porthos usually wakes before his alarm and his first one only vibrates, the later noisy one only a safeguard if he sleeps too deeply. Porthos doesn’t wake for it, this morning. Athos has a look and finds Porthos flushed, mouth open, sound asleep. Athos sighs. Porthos has managed almost the entire term without getting a cold and now he probably has some kind of awful lurgy. He goes to get a thermometer, some ibuprofen, and to put the kettle on, then he sits on Porthos’s side of the bed and shakes him awake. Porthos stares at Athos for long moment, blinks slowly, then sits up, legs off the edge of the bed, and rubs his face over and over. Athos wraps an arm around his head and holds him still, putting the thermometer in his ear. Porthos protests and squirms but eventually subsides grumbling into Athos’s arm, head heavy and hot against Athos’s shoulder. They wait. 

“You’re sick,” Athos says, firmly, on consulting the thermometer. “Feverish and sick. Lie down, take ibuprofen. I am making tea.”

“It’s too late to call in Athos,” Porthos says, sounding weary and irritable. “How high is it?”

Athos tries to hide the thermometer but Porthos sees the relatively low numbers and gets up, swallowing a couple of ibuprofen and promising to take tea in a flask if Athos does it. Athos goes and sorts it along with a microwave bowl/lunchbox of soup from the freezer. Porthos leaves the soup. Athos sits in Serge’s pub slowly drinking a glass of whiskey, the tupperware resting on the bar beside him, until it’s the lunch break, then he takes the soup to the staff room and heats it in the microwave, tipping it carefully into a bowl and finding a spoon. Flea finds him at it and laughs at his seriousness but offers him one of her lemon and ginger tea bags that she keeps there. Athos carries the tea and the soup carefully to Porthos’s classroom and sets both on the desk in front of Porthos, who’s writing up an assignment rubric on the board. 

“Year sevens?” Athos guesses. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, turning. He spots the soup and tea and exasperates in Athos’s direction. Athos puts his hands behind his back and reads over the rubric. “Don’t.”

Athos takes the marker and corrects the spelling mistakes anyway, pointing Porthos to the desk. Porthos sits and spoons idly at his soup, eating not very much of it. He’s still flushed and there’s sweat at his hairline. Athos finishes his corrections and perches on the desk. Porthos rests his head on Athos’s thigh. Athos strokes his cheek. 

“I admit I feel like shit,” Porthos grumbles. “I told them I’ll be out tomorrow. They’re trying to find someone to cover this afternoon but everyone’s got this, and I have years nine and eleven after seven, SATs and GCSEs.”

“They’ll survive,” Athos says. 

“Maybe,” Porthos mumbles, turning his head to hide his face in Athos’s trousers. 

“Brace up,” Athos says. Bracingly. “Don’t actually, relax. You’re fine for the moment.”

There’s a perfunctory knock on the door and Aramis glides in, hair flighty and escaping his hairtie, glasses sliding off, a stack of papers trying to get out of his arms. He dumps everything on Porthos’s desk and nabs the abandoned soup. 

“Treville tells me I am to be teaching art this afternoon,” Aramis says, gleeful. 

“Nooo,” Porthos says, muffled. “Last time you had my students, when I came back they all had a million questions about the time I shot a melon off your head. I never shot a melon off your head, ‘mis.”

“You might have done, you could have done,” Aramis says. Breezily. 

“And they all drew pictures of me,” Porthos continues. “They were not flattering. They had for SOME REASON copied off a photo of me looking ridiculous after having water dumped on my head, captured, SOMEHOW, at just the moment I got hit, as if the photographer KNEW it was gonna happen.”

“Coincidence,” Aramis says. Calmly. 

“And they all seemed to be under the impression that previous to teaching I was some kind of spy for MI6,” Porthos finishes, looking up to glare fuzzily at Aramis. Who widens his eyes innocently and slurps his soup. 

d’Artagnan slips in, then, calling Aramis loudly. He spots Porthos and quickly puts his hands behind his back, also trying for innocence. 

“Oh God,” Porthos says, pushing his face into Athos’s thigh again. “A conspiracy.”

“Go home,” Aramis says. 

“We have no plan at all,” d’Artagnan says, too fast. “Not a plan to-”

Aramis, seemingly forgetting himself, catapults soup at d’Artagnan, effectively shutting him up; it lands in his hair and gloops down his face. Athos tugs Porthos up and out, leaving the other two to their ensuing argument. He catches a glimpse of the photo album d’Artagnan is gesturing with, recognises it as one d’Artagnan keeps of the four of them, knows it includes some gems of Porthos, and keeps his mouth firmly shut. He rather enjoyed the hundred or so different takes on Porthos-being-sneak-attacked-with-water. He still has a few that the students hadn’t wanted, he had one up in his classroom for at least a year before Porthos noticed and gave Athos a fantastically dramatic display of tears. He hopes Aramis and d’Artagnan choose the one where Porthos has a bit of leafy willow between his lip and nose as a moustache, flowers through his ear-piercings, grass all in his hair. He looks really nice in that picture, Athos wouldn’t mind a few arts of that to pin up. He wraps an arm around Porthos and gives him a squeeze. 

“Conspiracist,” Porthos mutters. 

“Mr de la Fere! Athos!” 

Athos stops. He has been spotted. He turns and sees four of the kids from his year eleven classes coming running over. The newer kids only just met him before All Of This, but he’s had these guys for years. They crowd around him asking how he is, eagerly looking for news of cards they sent back with Porthos. Athos can’t escape and more of his students crowd in and soon they’re in a bit of a muddle, kids surrounding them. Athos finds himself smiling, bending his head to listen, feeling warm inside to be so sought after though he knows it’s partly the novelty of having a teacher off for months for ‘family reasons’, everyone after a bit of gossip. Porthos rests a hand on Athos’s shoulder but quickly realises he’s fine and slips away. Athos stays for fifteen minutes chatting then begs off, saying he’s only here to take Porthos home. The year elevens who take art light up, clearly remembering the last time Porthos was off sick, and ask in low voices if Mr d’Herblay is taking their classes again. Athos nods and grins and puts a finger to his lip and the students disperse, whispering and laughing together. 

“Conspiracy,” Porthos whispers, ghosting himself up behind Athos and making Athos squeak, surprised. Porthos lets out a low, rough laugh. 

“Home,” Athos says. “You sound like crap.”

Porthos just laughs again and spends the entire walk home trying to make Athos jump. It’s not actually that difficult to do but Porthos is lumbering and slow and not very subtle today. Athos gives him a few just to be nice, which upsets Porthos so he walks beside Athos, hands in his pockets, sending him resentful glances. Athos’s lips keep twitching. When they get home Porthos goes to sit on the sofa in his coat, coughing, and Athos goes to make tea. He takes it through and sits beside Porthos to make sure he has at least a bit of it. Porthos just holds onto the warm mug, eyes shut, leaning into Athos. 

“Thanks for getting me,” Porthos whispers. 

“You forgot your soup,” Athos says, affronted that Porthos might have contemplated any other outcome to his not looking after himself. 

“I didn’t want soup,” Porthos says, exasperated, opening his eyes. It spurs him to sit up and get out of his coat and sip his tea before he loses his energy and just slumps close again, eyes closing, holding the tea to his chest. “I’m cold.”

“Don’t whine,” Athos says. “You’re on top of me I can’t do anything.”

Porthos makes a frustrated, sad noise and rests his head against Athos’s chest, face all drawn down in distress. Athos sighs and puts Porthos’s coat over his shoulders and back, hugs him close. Porthos sighs, more content. 

“You’re a bit ridiculous,” Athos says. 

“You haven’t fussed over me in months,” Porthos says. “I have been very self-sufficient and independent. For months.”

“You have,” Athos praises, meaning it. 

Porthos is self sufficient and independent, he learnt early and firmly. Athos never has to take care of him. But Athos likes to and over the years Porthos has slowly given in to it and given his trust to Athos and now he likes it. He likes letting go and depending on Athos, likes not doing the responsible thing and it not mattering because Athos will help, likes forgetting to pay the bills just because he can, likes not doing laundry because Athos will. He likes depending on Athos for food and warmth and care. Athos means the praise because people didn’t praise Porthos for it when he was small and he deserves all the good things in life. Athos feels a pushing giddying rush of righteous affection swarm through him and he tightens his hold on Porthos. 

“You do so well, taking care of me and getting on with living and being here for me and making sure we have jobs and money and a nice clean house and food and whiskey,” Athos says. Porthos snorts, coughing lightly. 

“Whiskey,” he mutters. “Bloody Captain Haddock you are.”

“I’m much nicer,” Athos says. “Do you want to just clutch that tea or are you gonna drink it?”

“Its warm.”

“I will make you a hot water bottle?”

“No.”

“Come on, lovely, get in bed and I’ll get a hottie and we can watch TV,” Athos says, kissing Porthos’s head encouragingly. 

“Alright,” Porthos grouches, sitting up and coughing pathetically, giving Athos a pointed, accusing glare. Athos smiles and cups Porthos’s face, forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

“I love you, beautiful,” Athos says. “Bed.”

Porthos goes, drooping. Athos makes the hot water bottle and goes up to their room via the spare to collect the quilt his mum made them for Hanukkah last year. Yom Kippur was weird, this year, and Athos feels odd about it. His father had just died and they hadn’t been together as a family, him in England Thomas and his mum in France. He doesn’t always go to them for holidays, but the high season they tend to do things like Skype and going to shul at the same time on different continents and sending packages. He’d felt apart from them in ways he hasn’t in years. He could go to France this year for Hanukkah, he’s often teaching over the season but he’s off now. That would mean leaving Porthos, though. 

Athos realises he’s stood in the hallway staring at the quilt in his arms. Porthos is coughing in the bedroom and Athos feels guilty. He pushes in and bustles about flapping the quilt over Porthos and snugging the hottie in with him and getting his laptop. Porthos is buried in the duvet, covering his face and his coughing. Athos sits behind him and rubs his back, tapping the laptop into life and getting their streaming thing up. Porthos sits up with a groan and nudges under Athos’s arm, arm around his stomach. 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers, pushing his cheek against Athos’s side. “Just sore.”

“Mm?” 

“Where they did the surgery,” Porthos whispers, turning his face more into Athos’s shirt, sounding weepy. 

“Shh,”Athos says, hoisting Porthos more firmly into his arms, starting an episode of Rosemary And Thyme the Lesbian Gardeners (according to Porthos, according to very few other people. To other people even the ‘gardeners’ was questionable seeing as they just seem to buy already grown plants and stick them in willy nilly, more interested in getting tangled in absurd murder mysteries). It’s been almost a year since Porthos had his gallbladder out but with a few complications and Porthos’s stomach a bit funny about what it wanted in it anyway, it’s been a bit of a mystery ever since and hurts for no reason sometimes where they cut him open. “Shh.”

“‘kay I’m shush,” Porthos mutters, rubbing his cheek against Athos’s shirt. “You’re soft.”

“Thanks,” Athos says. “Are you watching?”

“Mm.”

Athos smiles. Soon Porthos is a heavy sleepy weight against him and then sooner Porthos is asleep. Athos watches a bit more of the episode, stroking Porthos’s shoulders and keeping watch for a bit. Then he gets up because it’s only two pm and he’s hungry. Aramis and d’Artagnan both drop by after work, at about five, with photographs of the artwork Porthos’s students have done. They did choose the one with Porthos and his flowers and Athos smiles seeing Porthos buried in flowers in one picture, and one a comic, a series of drawings that show more and more flowers just growing around and out of him. 

Late into the night, after Porthos has got up and they’ve watched more TV and had toast for dinner and gone back to bed, Athos wakes to a bitten off sound, sharp breathing. Sounds that seem difficult to get out, cries and shouts that are muffled and choked. He shifts, reaching for Porthos, finding only Porthos’s tense back. Athos grips Porthos’s shoulder and too sleepy to get out of bed and walk around and too groggy to think to get Porthos to turn over he just goes the direct route of climbing over Porthos. Porthos stills when Athos is on top of him, shivering and then quieting, so Athos stays there, not daring to move, uncomfortable. He shifts when Porthos relaxes, pushing Porthos onto his back and lying half on him, wrapping him in an embrace. And, finding his skin chilled, in the duvet. Porthos lets out a shuddery kind of moan, pushing air out in a great wavering rush, head tipped back in discomfort. Athos wakes him. 

“Wha’?” Porthos asks, breathing uneven and rough but not sounding terribly distressed. 

“Bad dreams,” Athos mumbles. 

“Nn, oh.”

Porthos falls back asleep and Athos, never quite properly awake to begin with either, follows. He wakes Porthos twice more before morning, the fever burning him up and twisting whatever dreams he’s falling into. From what Athos can gather there’s nothing specific, no bad memories come calling, just things that frighten and upset Porthos. They’re both tired when Porthos wakes Athos a third time, about seven, having woken himself up and too frightened to go back to sleep without assurance. Athos supplies it as best he can and holds onto Porthos as the fear slowly loosens its grip and allows him a few moments quiet. Next Athos wakes at nine to Porthos in tears over something he can’t remember but can’t be soothed easily away, pressing close to Athos, needing to be held again, exhaustion and tension making him sore, body heavy against Athos. 

“I’m here,” Athos whispers, not knowing what else to says. Porthos swallows painfully, throat dry and rough. “My turn to soak up your tears now.”

“And sweat,” Porthos slurs, dropping the ‘d’ and ‘t’. He swallows again. “Water?”

Athos lets go slowly. He’s had Porthos with a fever before, he knows that Porthos doesn’t always quite realise he’s being held until he’s let go, at which point he needs very much to be held again very quickly. So Athos lets him go slowly and just enough to be able to reach over to his bedside table and grab the bottle left there. Porthos drinks a few sips then sighs, resting his forehead on Athos’s arm, wiping sweat off his face with Athos’s t-shirt.

“Thanks,” Athos says, taking the water back and dropping it on the bed behind Porthos, relaxing onto his back. “You are exhausting with a fever.”

“I know,” Porthos says. “My stomach’s really bothering me. Head’s pounding but I don’t want to make my stomach worse by taking something.”

“Have some more water and get some more sleep,” Athos mumbles, already halfway there himself. 

Porthos follows that advice, drinking more and then curling tight against Athos’s side. Athos finds a phone, his or Porthos’s he doesn’t know, and pulls up iplayer and an old Sherlock Holmes radio episode. It distracts Porthos enough to unclench a little. They sleep again before the episode is over. 

Porthos’s fever takes just over a day to break, wringing every ounce of strength from him, tossing him through nightmares and stomach pain and spiking erratically but never enough to really worry Athos. Finally Porthos sleeps more calmly and they wake wet with sweat but to a normal temperature. Athos changes the sheets and his clothes, Porthos stips naked, and they both flop into bed to sleep for hopefully a week. Athos wakes up enough to call Porthos in for another day off and then he’s out. He wakes to Porthos’s alarm. 

“Off,” Porthos mutters, arm flailing. “Shh. yeh we know, shut up. Off, oh fuck.”

The last is followed up in seconds by a crash as Porthos knocks a mug off the side-table, then a clatter as Porthos tries to fix it and knocks off whatever else is on there. Athos fishes Porthos’s phone from under the pillow and turns off the alarm. 

“Nnng forgot,” Porthos says. “Used to have a clock.”

“Yes darling, six years ago you had a clock,” Athos says. He feels well rested and ready for the day. He sits up and looks for water, finds the bottle empty on the floor, among the shattered mug, a book, the lamp, ibuprofen packet, a bottle of Lucozade, and Porthos’s jewelry box. “Are you picking that all up?”

“I’m sick,” Porthos says. Croaks. He looks blurrily up at Athos.

“You know you actually look sick and fairly pathetic, there’s no need to try and act it out,” Athos says, pushing Porthos’s curls off his forehead. He still feels cool to the touch. He looks knackered though. “Ok, I’ll clear up. You should drink something and sleep some more.”

Athos gets water so Porthos can do that and then cleans up, humming to himself, checking every now and then on Porthos. Porthos watches him work through heavy, dozy eyes that keep sliding shut like a sleepy toddler trying to stay awake. Athos bends to kiss his forehead and rub over his shoulder and back, lowering his humming to be more soothing, staying close a bit before finishing putting everything back. Porthos is asleep when he straightens. Athos goes to shower and make himself coffee and breakfast, then sits by the window and looks out to watch their neighbourhood wake up and head for the school. He goes out to catch d’Artagnan on his way by to say good morning and gets a handful of ‘get well soon’ cards d’Artagnan’s been carrying around forgetting about. And a kiss on the cheek. 

“What was that for?” Athos asks, touching the spot.

“You look well,” d’Artagnan says, a bright smile breaking out. “And happy.”

“Oh,” Athos says. “Porthos is better. His fever broke.”

“That’s great. I’ve been texting, you should text back.”

“Sorry,” Athos says. “Yesterday was all fever.”

“I know what his dreams are like, I’ve sat with him through a fever,” d’Artagnan says. “I meant text back now, not then. Oh I’m going to be so late. Send Porthos my love.”

d’Artagnan skips into a jog and Athos goes back inside, taking Porthos’s cards to the kitchen. He takes them through with tea and toast when he hears Porthos stirring and sits against the headboard nicking Porthos’s toast and reading the cards when Porthos is done with them. One of his students has stuck on her take on ‘flowery Porthos’. 

“It’s not the worst photo they could have chosen,” Porthos says, grudgingly. 

“I love that picture,” Athos says. “I’m sorry you’ve been sick, but it’s made me realise. I can cope with things. I can take care of you and myself, and I’m not sad anymore. Not all the time, anyway.”

“Good,” Porthos says. “You can go see your GP then.”

“I’ll make an appointment,” Athos promises. He’s struggled with depressive episodes most of his life and while feeling better is a good step he knows Porthos is right - he needs to check in with someone, do a bit of work. “I’ll see my therapist again, too. I was thinking about going to France for Hanukkah but decided against leaving you. I’ll go for pesach, I think that will fall on Easter in 2018.”

“I can be left,” Porthos says. Ignoring the fact that he’s entirely reliant on Athos for any semblance of uprightness at the moment. And ignoring the fact that he’s holding tight around Athos’s waist. 

“I know,” Athos says. “I don’t want to be without you, though. So. Maybe today you’ll eat something other than toast?”

“Smoothe subject change,” Porthos says. “Baked potatoes?”

“Good idea. Maybe some sou-”

“I am not eating soup,” Porthos says, stubbornly. Athos laughs but gives in. 

“No soup for Porthos, very well,” Athos says, kissing Porthos’s head. 

***


End file.
